


Sideways

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Car Accidents, Driver Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NASCAR, Spotter Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29643540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Two weeks after the big one, Dean Winchester wakes up in the hospital—and panics.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 25
Kudos: 196





	Sideways

Sweat beading underneath his visor, Dean keeps his eyes on the track as he crosses the start/finish line. The white flag waves frantically at his back, signaling the final lap, while the rest of the field surrounds him, three-wide at the straightaway and quickly shifting into two lanes. Ash Lindberg drafts behind him in an attempt to swing around to the side, but Dean shakes him off, foot to the accelerator.

“Adam’s coming up right beside you,” Castiel says in his ear, gravely as ever, distorted by radio static. Gripping the wheel, Dean glances out of his side view at the red 47 gaining speed. “You need to move right, he’s gunning for you.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Dean huffs, shoving the pedal harder. The engine revs, louder than the blood pounding in his ears, his breaths coming in quick bursts. “Get him off my ass, he’s been bumping me for the last ten laps.”

“He’s got more to lose than you do right now,” Castiel reminds him. “If he doesn’t win this, he’s out of the chase. Don’t do anything stupid.”

If Dean could shake his head, he would. As it is, he punches the steering wheel and jams his foot to the floor, and Adam disappears into the rearview for just the briefest of seconds. Long enough for Dean to pull back to keep from slamming into the 00 of Victor. The last thing he needs right now is to crash, right when he’s so close to making it to the top of the points rankings. “Better second than dead,” Dean tells himself for the fifth time.

Turn three comes faster than Dean anticipates, and he pumps the brake, his foot thudding into the footwell. Nothing happens. Again and again, he slams the pedal down, and his car continues speeding, nearly colliding with Adam and sending him into the wall. “We got a situation down here,” Dean announces, pulling off the accelerator enough to coast as he enters turn four. Adam catches up again, barely an inch between them. “I got no brakes.”

“Excuse me?” Castiel echoes.

“I mean, my brakes are fucking done!” Dean shouts. If he keeps his feet off the pedals, he can maybe make it into fourth or fifth place, given the gap he has between himself and the rest of the field. Only a few hundred feet left. He can make it, can already see the checkered flag waving.

“Get to your right, Ash is out of gas,” Cas says, louder now, just as Adam passes to his left and cuts him off.

In hindsight, maybe he’ll remember what actually happened—how Adam brake-checked him and how Dean slammed straight into him, the front end of his car crumpling. He’ll remember someone got up under his rear bumper and sent him airborne, how the grandstands had never looked closer than they were when he slammed front-first into the wire fencing. In the moment, though, all he hears is the crunch of metal and sees the light of the Daytona sun bearing down on him, brighter than ever.

Because after that, after the noise quiets and the crowd falls silent at his ascent, all he knows is the pain of slamming head-first into a barrier at close to one hundred and fifty miles an hour. After that, Castiel’s voice fades into memory.

After that, Dean passes out.

-+-

Reality fades in slowly, interspersed with the hum of machinery and a multitude of voices around him, some familiar, others not. Sometimes, he almost wakes, on the barest edge of opening his eyes, but each time, he falls under just as quickly, drowning in a sea of nothingness, of blackness. Until one afternoon, when someone touches his forehead—and he promptly gags around his breathing tube, desperate to yank it out of his throat.

Someone calls for a nurse—someone he’s known for over a decade, and the same person that looks at him now with incredibly blue eyes widened in an absolute state of panic. Before Dean can properly react, an entire team of nurses and a doctor rush in, several holding him down by his shoulders.

“Mr. Winchester, I need you to breathe out as hard as you can,” a woman tells him with little sympathy in her voice. Dean does it anyway, coughing as she pulls the tube free in one smooth motion. His throat burns—his lungs more so, but the worst part is over with, or so he can tell.

One of the nurses give him a cup of ice while another checks his vitals, scribbling notes furiously onto a clipboard. All the while, a man watches him from the chair in the corner, a hand over his mouth and tears in his eyes. A look Dean has always hated to see on his face.

“Just relax,” the nurse carrying the ice tells him. She presses a cold hand to his forehead, urging him to lie back. Dean goes all too willingly, his eyes rolling back as he hits the pillows. Whatever her name is, he can’t find it in himself to find out. “You had some internal injuries, but you’re better than when you first came in, Mr. Winchester. Can you tell me how you got here?”

How he got here— _How did I get here_? The longer he thinks on it, the more the dark spot in his mind grows. Vaguely, he remembers arriving to the track, but after that, nothing. No driver’s introductions, no formation lap—just blank space. “Did I wreck?” he asks, horrified to know the answer.

Looking up, he finds the nurse staring down at him, her eyes soft in consolation. “That’s not my story to tell,” she says, brushing his hair out of his face. “I’ll let you rest, and Mr. Milton fill you in. We won’t let the press know you’re awake for another hour, and we won’t let them into the room until tomorrow. Does that sound good?”

The press? Why would the press be here?

“I’ll take care of it.” From across the room, Castiel Milton stands and offers her a wave, his eyes even sadder now. The woman gathers up her supplies and tosses the intubation tube into the medical waste bin, and her and her partner leave, closing the door behind them.

Silence fills the space between them, probably the quietest Dean’s life has ever been since he was born. Engine noise has become second nature to him, his every waking day filled with nothing but sound. And now, he can’t find anything. Just the rumble of the air conditioners on the roof and the noise of traffic down below.

Castiel pulls over a rolling chair and sits at his side. Repeatedly, he opens his mouth, then closes it, the words dying before they make it past his lips. “What happened to me?” Dean asks, his throat raw. The actual incident can wait—what’s wrong with _him_ takes priority. “Cas, how—How long was I out?”

Castiel’s face, ever stoic even under the toughest of circumstances, crumples. “Two weeks,” he says. Two weeks—Dean was unconscious for two weeks, and he can’t even remember why. “You hit your chest in the impact and you were unconscious when the med team pulled up to you. You suffered a collapsed lung and internal bleeding, and they decided to induce a coma so you could heal. Because I told them, if they didn't, then you would’ve fought your way out of her the minute you realized where you were.”

Dean would laugh, if this were ten years ago, when he was a cocky eighteen-year-old with nothing to lose. But through all of his career, through all of the crashes and near-misses, he somehow managed to stay out of the infield care center, and never spent a minute in an ambulance. Until now. And he can’t remember a second of it. “Cas,” he croaks and wipes his eyes. The IV in his elbow tugs. No wonder he can’t feel any pain. “Cas, you gotta tell me, ‘cause I’m really freaked out right now, and I can’t remember anything.”

“What’s the last thing you can recall?” Castiel asks. He blinks, his eyes wet, the most emotion Dean has ever seen him express. On the track, Castiel is placid. Gruff, even. But behind closed doors, whether it be in bars or the crew trailer, or even in Dean’s living room, he’s softer, with the barest edge of a smile on his lips.

But rarely has Dean seen him cry. _What happened to me_?

“I woke up,” Dean starts, pinching his eyes shut. “Ate, got in the car. Called you, let you know I was on my way, and you said that NBC was on the way to interview me for the pre-race. So I got there, I parked…” He waves a shaking hand. “That’s it.”

Castiel doesn’t respond. For a long minute, he just stares at Dean, his lips a thin line. Then, he pulls his phone from his pocket, thumbing through his apps until he finds what he’s looking for. “This is the only way you’ll understand,” he says, “because I can’t explain it to you. I’ve tried to wrap my head around it, but it still doesn’t make any sense.”

As soon as he finishes, he hands Dean his phone—and all at once, Dean remembers, viscerally shoved back in the driver’s seat. The brakes failed—and Adam slammed on his, in an attempt to send Dean into a spin, only Dean slammed into him, and the chain reaction sent him hurdling into the fence, rotating as it tore apart the barbed wire barrier. He landed short of the finish on his hood, then bounced, landing upright. Engine bay ripped from the car, back end crumbled, the roof pancaked.

He doesn’t need the video to tell him the rest, but it keeps on, showing the medical team screeching to a halt at the side of his car. The crowd gathered close to the fence to get a better look; someone pulled out the black barricades. All they needed to know.

“I quit,” Dean says, dropping the phone into his lap. Castiel sits up, his brow pinched. “I quit, Cas. I’m done.”

“You can’t quit,” Castiel barks, automatic. “You’re in the top twelve—”

“And I almost died,” Dean shouts. Castiel rears back, affronted. “They don’t break out the fucking barricades for nothing, man. As soon as they did that, I was as good as dead, it’s Earnhardt all over again, on national fucking television. Here lies Dean Winchester, killed at the Daytona 500.”

“Jesus Christ,” Castiel swears. He stands with a grunt, sending the chair flying backwards and skittering into the wall. “After everything you’ve worked for, everything you've been through, you can’t quit just because of a wreck—”

“It wasn't just a wreck.” Sitting up, Dean wheezes through his teeth. _There’s_ the pain. “I was there. You saw it. Fucking—People have died in crashes like this, and you’re telling me it’s just a wreck? Cas.” He grabs the front of Castiel’s shirt with his good hand, yanking him closer. “Look at me and tell me this was just a wreck. Look at me.”

Castiel doesn’t. In fact, Castiel steps away, turning his back. It’s an answer—but not the one Dean wants.

“Get out,” Dean growls. “You better be fucking lucky I’m just a driver, because I’d fire your ass right now.”

“And I’d deserve it.” Without a word, Castiel leaves, his movements fueled by anger and the slightest hint of remorse. Still, he shuts the door as quietly as he can, and in his absence, Dean covers his mouth and sobs into his hand, until his lungs ache and a nurse comes in to check and make sure he hasn’t had a heart attack.

Tomorrow, the papers will talk about how Dean Winchester woke up after the worst crash of the year, and how the doctors are optimistic that he can get back out on the track in the next few weeks. But his chances of winning the championship this year are done. The closest he’s ever been to making his family proud, and it’s gone, yanked out from under him.

 _I should’ve died_ , he thinks, his hands wet and an arm around his shoulders. _I never should’ve lived._

-+-

Dean leaves the hospital the next day, sunglasses over his eyes and his crew chief at his front, keeping him out of sight of any of the photographers swarming the front of Halifax Medical Center. He can barely walk, held up purely by his hand to Bobby’s shoulder, and the minute he slides into the passenger seat of Bobby’s truck, he bursts into tears. His perpetual state ever since he woke up, but now even more so, with a crowd surrounding him, shouting questions through the windows.

 _How are you feeling_?

 _Are you planning on racing again_?

 _How are you handling this crippling blow to your season_?

None of them, Dean wants to answer. Bobby drives off, leaving the reporters in the rearview. As soon as they make it out of the parking lot, he reaches over to palm Dean’s shoulder, squeezing him through his sweatshirt. A hasty purchase from gift shop, the only one they had in his size—the Daytona 500. “You’re good, son,” Bobby soothes, or at least tries. “You’re good now, we’re going back to the hotel.”

“I can’t go back,” Dean says through the tears. He struggles to comfort himself, incessantly rubbing his hands together until his palms burn. “I can’t race again, I can’t—I can’t even think about it.”

Bobby shushes him, shaking him a bit. It may have worked when he was a kid, but he’s twenty-eight now, and absolutely lost for what to do next. Racing is his entire life, the only thing he knows how to do, ever since his father bought him his first go-kart and plowed a track into the field in their backyard. Every second of every day, John prepared him, kept him focused, gave him every opportunity he could so Dean could rise through the ranks. ARCA, trucks, minor league, the Cup Series—all of it, solely because of John’s connections and Dean’s skill.

But Dean never wanted this. And now, he has no career prospects, all because of John Winchester.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to walk from the car to his room. Bobby pulls a wheelchair from the backseat and kicks it open, afterward helping Dean onto solid ground. At the hospital, it was just for show, to make him look stronger than he is. Here, no one’s watching, and Dean is pretty sure Bobby paid off the hotel staff to keep them from running to the press.

Head bowed, he watches the asphalt of the parking lot change to sidewalk, then to the Hilton’s carpeted floor. Never once does he look up, now even when they board the elevator, heading for the third floor. His room is on the far end of the hall, he remembers that much, with a window overlooking the speedway and US 92. All of his stuff is still inside, his bed made and clothes stacked in neat piles atop the desk. It smells sterile, like no one’s been living there in days. Bobby couldn't have stayed here, what with Sam still racing every weekend.

Which means Bobby paid for an empty room for two weeks, just so he could have a place to come back to. If only he could stop crying—if only it didn't hurt.

“Your brother’s gonna be in town later,” Bobby says, helping him up from his chair. On unsteady legs, Dean ambles over to the bed, whining the second he lays down. _You’re such a fucking child. Dad would hate you right now_. “We’re going to Vegas this weekend, but he wanted to see you before we left tomorrow.”

“Great,” Dean huffs, his eyes pinched. He toes off his sneakers, kicking them to the floor. “Just what I want, my brother to see how broke I am.”

Audibly, Bobby sighs. “You know he doesn’t care about that,” he says. He pats Dean’s cheek before sitting on the opposite bed, the one where Sam slept the night before… _The night before_. “He won last week. Dedicated the whole thing to you.”

Dean’s eyes well, his vision growing cloudy. In all his years of racing, Sam has never won a single race, forever destined to come in a close second. He can win stages, sure, and he’s already in the final twelve this year based on points alone, but he’s never won. And Dean missed it. “Ain’t that nice,” Dean says, measured as he can muster. He fails and covers his eyes with his sleeved arm. “Too bad I couldn't see it.”

For a long minute, Bobby doesn’t reply. Dean listens to the air conditioner in the corner instead, trying to calm down enough to open mouth without screaming. His ribs hurt. Bobby still has his pills. “You were there,” Bobby says, eventually. “Whole team knew you were there. It ain’t just a physical thing, son, it’s mental. Sam raced for you, and you helped him, whether you knew it or not. He spent damn near every day here when he wasn't at the track, him and Castiel.”

That damn name again. “Yeah?” Dean says, swallowing. “Cas try to tell him he’s an idiot too?”

Bobby sucks in a breath. “I heard the play by play,” he says, wringing his hands. His rings clink against one another. “He said you were thinking about quitting.”

“Wasn’t thinking.” Uncovering his eyes, Dean blinks at the ceiling. “Gonna sound like a dick if I say I haven’t thought about it, but it’s true.”

“Why would that make you a dick?” Bobby removes his hat, setting it on the nightstand. Thirty years in the sport, and he still has all his hair, even if he went gray at thirty-five. “Dean, you’re in your prime. You’ve got enough wins under your belt to make anyone the happiest man alive. But that don’t mean you can’t think about it. Hell, your daddy wanted to quit the second he got in the car for the first time. He liked to pretend he was the toughest son of a bitch on the track, but he was scared, ‘cause all of his friends? He watched them hit the wall one by one. He always swore, the minute he got into the big one, he was done.”

Dean sniffles. “’Cept he didn't walk out.”

Bobby shakes his head. “No, he didn’t.”

Because John Winchester hit the barriers separating pit lane from the track at full speed in qualifying six years ago. Dean watched it happen from the grandstands—Sam refuses to this day to watch the video, and Dean doesn’t blame him one bit. John loved racing, but he lived with the fear that all drivers do, that the next race might be their last. Dean ignored it, pushed it down so deep he sometimes forgot it existed. But it was there, ever since the moment he took John’s ashes home and placed them in the family plot.

Dean walked away, something his father never could—but at what cost?

“Why’re you so pissed with him?” Bobby asks after a while, after Dean has successfully managed to sit up and take one of the painkillers Bobby offers him. “Know you two’ve had your tiffs in the past, but he said you threatened him.”

“I was…” Dean starts, then shakes his head. He was in the wrong—they both were, but Dean can’t take it back. “I fucked up, Bobby. He said I couldn’t quit, ‘cause my career was on the line, and I… He said it was just a wreck.” Nothing is ever just a wreck. Wrecks involve G-forces and whiplash and concussions, and no matter how much padding and how many roll cages they put into the cars, nothing is ever truly safe. “I told him I’d fire him if I could.”

“You know you wouldn't,” Bobby says. Unfortunately, Dean never would, because as much as he hates Castiel sometimes, he needs him, and not just as his spotter. Castiel is the only friend he’s ever had, in the sport and outside of it. Castiel knows him, trusts him—and Dean would give anything to see him again. “He knows how much racing means to you, Dean. He’s been in the driver’s seat, he knows what it’s like. And if he still had both of his legs, you know he’d be right there with you.”

Right. Another thing to feel guilty over, and it wasn’t his fault. He swears some days, the entire team of John Winchester Racing is cursed.

“Still.” Dean looks down at his lap, tugging the sleeves of his sweatshirt down around his hands. “I shouldn’t’ve put that pressure on him. But you don’t just tell a guy who woke up from a coma that it’s just a fucking wreck.”

Hands on his knees, Bobby stands and crosses the three feet between them. He lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing to the barest edge of pain. “He was there, Dean. Every damn night, he stayed in that room with you. In all of my years, I’ve never seen a man that broken, not even when the docs told him that he’d never walk again. For Christ’s sakes, he’s pulled you out of every fight you’ve ever been in, and that wreck? He was the first person on the track, and I never thought I’d get him out of the car.”

He drops his hand, and Dean feels winded for an entirely different reason.

“So don’t tell me he doesn’t care. ‘Cause that man right there? Is about as good as you’re gonna ever get for a friend.”

Oh— _Shit_. Dean opens his mouth, but Bobby shakes his head, eyes half-lidded and solemn. “You should rest,” he says, heading for the door. “Order room service. Room’s comped for the rest of the week.”

“Did you pay for it?” Dean asks.

And Bobby just shakes his head.

-+-

The only thing on the hotel’s room service menu that he can stomach is oatmeal. The attendant lets herself in and hands Dean his tray a few minutes after he hangs up the phone, and leaves a few extra water bottle and towels while she’s there. After she leaves, Dean alternates between flipping through the channels and eating, fighting through the ache in his throat that probably won’t leave for days. They should’ve kept him in the hospital, but staying there would only lead to the press at his door at all hours, and hunkering down in a hotel sounded like the better option.

At least here, he can eat whatever he wants and control the air conditioner.

Sam arrives somewhere around three, only to find Dean stuck in the bathtub. Stuck, in his opinion, not Dean’s. “Best forty-five minutes of my life,” Dean complains when Sam helps him stand and offers him a towel, “and you gotta come in and ruin it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam pats his shoulder, then pulls Dean into a hug, one Dean returns, only somewhat to steady himself. “Good to see you, man.”

Swallowing, Dean nods, burying his face in Sam’s neck. “Good to see you too.”

Sam leaves him to get dressed, thankfully, whistling as he closes the door. With a towel around his waist, Dean brushes his hair out of his face and looks at himself in the mirror. Completely on accident, and a second later, he wishes he hadn’t. Bruises paint his entire torso in the shape of the steering wheel and the roll cage where he slammed into it, dyed in purples and greens. An incision sits in the middle of his chest, from where they fixed his lung and did whatever else they needed to do to help him live. No wonder he aches—he’s a walking nightmare.

Clothes help. Gingerly, he pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt, both smelling like his detergent and not like they’ve been disinfected too many times. Bracing a hand on the wall, he walks from the bathroom and crawls his way onto his mattress, still as firm as ever. From the other bed, Sam hits a series of buttons with the remote, bringing the television to a different input. From there, he brings up the YouTube app, and types in _Sam Winchester Final Lap Folds of Honor 500_.

“Did Bobby tell you about the race?” he asks.

Dean nods, adjusting the pillows against the headboard. “Said you won. Said my ghost was haunting everyone.”

Sam laughs through his teeth. “Swear, you say one thing around him and he gets superstitious. Anyway, here, watch this.”

Sam hits play, and the video starts. Atlanta Motor Speedway is fairly easy, all things considered. A mile and a half oval with no restrictor plates, allowing the drivers to hit their top speed with only friction to stop them. Dean won there three times, all at the start of his career before the new crop of drivers started clawing their way up the ladder. Sam and Adam cross the start/finish line with the white flag waving over their heads, signaling the last lap. All hell breaks loose—the pack crosses the line barely a second after them, their cars bumping into one another, sending showers of sparks from under the tires. Half of the cars have some sort of damage, and Sam’s rear bumper is hanging on with a duct tape and nothing else.

Sam rides Adam’s bumper for the first turn, then attempts to pass, only to have Adam swerve and cut him off. Again and again on the straight away, Sam floors it, and the two go into the turn, Sam pulling down onto the inside line and scraping front fenders with Adam. But Adam is relentless, and Sam makes him work to keep his position. As the seconds go on, Sam claws his way closer, sometimes passing by the back wheel, others narrowly evading Adam riding his brakes to keep him behind.

But Sam is just as stubborn. Always has been, especially behind the wheel of the car, and as they round into turn three, he makes his move and guns it, sliding past Adam with inches to spare. Adam bumps his rear the second he makes it through the turn, but Sam keeps it steady, probably white knuckling the steering wheel. Just watching him, Dean can’t breathe. He already knows the outcome, but watching the final lap of any race reminds him of why he stuck with racing in the first place, because of the excitement, the adrenaline of fighting for your life at the very last moment, and the rush once you cross the line with the checkered flag waving just ahead.

Sam takes the last turn with ease, leaving Adam in his rearview. The crowd stands, stomping and screaming and clapping as Sam zips over the line with seconds to spare. Dean finds himself shouting right along with the video, and barely holds back the tears when the rest of the field crawls into the pit lane and Sam spins his tires in front of the crowd, sending up a cloud of smoke.

Unbelievable—and he missed it, because of the same man Sam beat just weeks later. “Adam tried to fight me after,” Sam laughs. Dean wipes his eyes, chuckling right along with it. “He chased me to our trailer and said I’d ruined his life. Cas came out and threw a shoe at him, and you can bet how that went over.”

“God,” Dean laughs, then coughs, his lungs aching. “Always knows how to piss everyone off, doesn't he?”

“Hey, he’s a better spotter than we’ve had,” Sam says. His eyes soften as he turns the input back to the regular stations, now displaying the local news. Silence—the kind Dean has always hated ever since John learned that the silent treatment was more effective than physical discipline. But Sam isn’t his father. Sam actually cares. “He’s just been really broken up about it, y’know? They interviewed him after the race, and he spent half of the time talking about you.” Something sad crosses his eyes. Dean can barely look at him without feeling his chest clench. “Dean, is he—”

“Don't.”

Dean wraps his arms around his stomach, resisting the urge to fall forward and bury his face in the sheets. Because he knows that deep down, whatever he and Castiel have going isn’t strictly platonic, but if anyone found out, if the press even caught a whiff or began to suspect that either of them weren’t exactly straight, then it would be both of their careers on the line, and if he came out now…

 _I can’t_ , he thinks. _I can’t hurt him like that_.

The sheets rustle on the other bed. Sam sits in front of him, a knee pulled up onto the mattress. “You think I don’t get it?” he asks. Dean shakes his head, the words dying in his throat. “I know you told me and Bobby, and I think Cas knows too, about you. But Dean, he’s a wreck. I haven’t seen someone panic like that since I crashed out last year and didn't pull my net down fast enough. Even if he does have feelings for you, isn’t that—isn’t that a good thing? I mean—”

“I can’t,” Dean croaks. Tears well, barely held back. “I never even told dad I was gay, and just—What if everyone finds out? This ain’t a damn movie, Sam, I’m not gonna be anyone’s favorite if they find out I’m a fucking fairy. And Cas too, the man’s a fucking saint for putting up with me, and I…” A breath. “I know he is too. Trust me, there’s a vibe, but I’m—I can’t hurt him like that. I can’t take us both down just because I wanna spend more time with him than just on the track.”

Sam runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a sigh through his nose. “You gotta at least tell him,” he says, which is probably the worst idea in the world. “You almost died, man. I think he deserves to know. I mean, he spent every night we weren’t on the track with you. Most days, I’d walk in and he was asleep, and it took three cups of coffee to get him to leave. He just—He cares about you. I think he deserves to know.”

Castiel doesn’t deserve the burden, no matter how right Sam may be. “He probably doesn't wanna see me again,” Dean mumbles, drying his eyes.

“Bobby told me you said you chewed him out,” Sam says. Apparently John Winchester Racing has a massive game of telephone going on when he’s not looking. “Just—talk to him, okay? Oh, and Bobby asked if you’re going to Vegas with us. Bus leaves at six in the morning.”

Vegas. The last thing Dean wants right now is to show up in a wheelchair, and Sam wants him to hop on the bus and go to _Vegas_? “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Kinda just wanna sleep for ten years.”

“I feel that,” Sam says, light. “Come on, we’re not leaving without you. I need you there when I kick Adam’s ass out of the playoffs for good.”

If only Sam didn't make it so tempting. “Fine,” Dean huffs. “But I get the bed in the back.”

Sam offers him a smile, his eyes bright. “Deal.”

-+-

Someone knocks at midnight.

Stirring, Dean peeks out from under the sheets at the empty bed on the other side of the room. At first, he hears nothing—then another knock, just as soft, probably attempting not to wake any of the neighbors. “Use the damn key,” Dean complains and covers his head again. Just his luck, the pain finally stops and he can finally sleep, and someone has the audacity to wake him up.

Whoever’s knocking apparently does have a key. Part of him should be worried, or at least wondering why someone knows where his room is, but the pain meds tell him to lie back down and forget about it.

That sense of calm lasts for five seconds before a hand pets through his hair. After that, Dean bolts upright, biting back a scream as his ribs threaten to break again. Before him, dressed in a gray threadbare t-shirt and sweatpants, stands Castiel, looking just as haunted as Dean saw him the day before. He jerks his hand back at first, then helps Dean to lie down, apologizing under his breath. “I thought you were awake, you said to use the key—”

“It’s fine,” Dean hisses.

His back to the mattress, Dean looks at the ceiling while Castiel rounds the bed, crawling onto the other side. Nothing they haven’t done before, but things were different then. Then, Dean could ignore the way Castiel looked at him and go on with his day, because it supposedly meant nothing. But near-death experiences have a way of changing perspectives, especially after meddling brothers needle their thoughts into the conversation.

In reality, Dean has watched to hold Castiel’s hand for the last seven years, and kiss him for the last five. But the minute he steps on the track, he’s a celebrity, and Castiel is in charge of making sure he makes it through the race unscathed. They’re a team, one of the best in the sport—and this could destroy it all if anyone knew.

Gingerly, Castiel pulls up his pant leg and undoes the Velcro strap around his knee, then pulls the carbon fiber of his prosthetic off. He follows with the other and sets them on the floor at the foot of the bed, afterward rolling his pant legs up. Five years since, and sometimes Dean forgets the accident, forgets just how much pain Castiel endured just to walk again. Being there, though, Dean will never forget.

Castiel pulls the sheets up and slips under, sprawled out on his back. Why he’s here, Dean can’t find it in himself to ask. Instead, he goes with what he knows best—making amends. “I shouldn't’ve yelled at you,” he says, pulling the sheets up over his chest. Protection—from nothing, but also everything. “I’d just woken up, Cas, and you—”

“I shouldn't have said what I did, either.” Long and low, Castiel sighs, the only sound in the room. “It was inconsiderate. Perhaps I’d forgotten the gravity of what happened to you, but all I could think about was your career and not your health.” Castiel turns onto his side; his fingertips dance across Dean’s bicep, entirely too tender for the man that punched Luke Bringer’s lights out at Homestead over a decade ago. “I should’ve asked if you were alright.”

“You should’ve,” Dean sighs. Gingerly, he rolls over to face Castiel, wincing until the strain in his ribs stops. Looking at him in the dim light, Dean aches to touch him, to comfort one of the only people in his life that’s looked at him and cared. He has gray around his temples, from a life lived too fast and ridden too hard. Nearly fifteen years apart, and Dean feels just as old some days. “I’m fine. Gonna be fine, just gotta rest and I’ll be back.”

Castiel nods, never quite meeting Dean’s eyes. “How long have you thought about retiring?”

 _Crap_. “Not very long,” Dean says. “Just—think about it sometimes, what I’d do if I stopped racing. Can’t be an announcer, ‘cause I haven’t been around that long, and I can’t be a team owner or anything, who’s got that kinda money anymore? All I’m good at is driving.”

Low, Castiel hums. “You know that’s not true,” he says, and does something Dean never imagined possible. He touches Dean’s cheek, with the same hand that’s driven his car until the rubber wore off, with the same hand that’ve drawn blood and pulled bodies from burning vehicles. The same hand that Dean’s longed to touch for longer than he cares to admit. “You’re an excellent driver, but you’re smart, too, and thoughtful. Anyone would be lucky to have you in their box.”

“Don’t sweettalk me,” Dean joshes, earning a quiet laugh. “It’s just—I never wanted this life. Driving was dad’s thing, not mine. I wanted to play in a band, actually go to college. Instead, I was driving go-karts before I was six. I was in my first Nationwide race before I even had my driver’s license. He just kept pushing me and pushing me, and I couldn't talk back because that’s what my grandfather did, and that’s what he did, like NASCAR is the family business. But it’s… It’s not.” He sniffles. “I can’t even win a championship. And I was right there, and all I thought was, I’ll make dad proud.”

Castiel curls his fingers around Dean’s ear, letting them slide down to his collar, all the while sending shivers down Dean’s spine. “He’s already proud,” he says, then, “We’re all proud. There’s not a single moment that I haven’t been proud of you.” He smiles, barely there before it’s gone. “I’d been racing for nearly a decade when John brought me on as his driver. I’d been through everything. I knew what life was like before and after Earnhardt’s passing, I’ve raced against people that you’ve only dreamt of meeting. And still, he brought me in to drive alongside his kid, some snot-nosed, bright-eyed teenager that barely knew how to use a gear shift.”

“Hey.” Dean pokes him in the ribs, and Castiel flinches away. “I drove your pants off that first race.”

Another smile. This one sticks around, creasing the corners of Castiel’s eyes. “I enjoyed our rivalry. We had a storyline, the veteran versus the protégé.” His grin falls, turning somber. “Sometimes I still miss it, the wind in my hair. But when I look at you, I feel the same rush I felt when I first climbed in that window all those years ago. Maybe I’m living vicariously, but I’d like to see you drive again. I want Sprint Cup Champion under your name, and I want to be the person who helped you get there.”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles. With all his heart, he wants that title too, but this year, his chances are shot, unless he gets back in the car two weeks from now and runs several perfect races. He has enough wins and points to get him through, but it’s too late to tell, and part of him wonders if he’ll ever be that close again. “I was so close, Cas, I just…”

Castiel shushes him, tipping Dean’s chin up with a finger. “You’re strong, Dean. Even if it’s not this year, you’re still young. You have the skill and the team behind you. You won’t fail.”

_But I did. That’s all I’ve ever done._

He shouldn't—really, he shouldn't even try, but he mirrors Castiel and touches his cheek, afterward running his fingers through his hair. Softly, Castiel sighs and closes his eyes. “When you crashed,” Dean says, low, “I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there in the pit box, and I couldn't—I couldn’t move. I saw them pull you out, and you were screaming, and I just—I thought, this was it, I’m about to watch my best friend die. And you fought so hard, you did everything you could”—his voice cracks, tears filling his eyes—“and they took everything from you, and I don’t want that to be me, Cas.

“I want a life outside of racing. I wanna be able to walk away without regrets, and I wanna be able to look at myself in the mirror and say, I did my best. But I can’t if I’m scared every time I get in the car.” He blinks, tears spilling into the corner of his nose. Castiel wipes them away with a shaking thumb. “Tell me it’s alright, man. Tell me we’re gonna get through this.”

“We will.” Castiel’s arm snakes around his waist, mindful of his ribs. Dean scoots closer, hiding his face under Castiel’s chin. “I want you here, Dean. I want you to do whatever you can to win, but if you don't think you can do it anymore, then we’ll work it out, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

His heart swells, torn between overjoyed and aching. “Not just racing, man.” He pulls away, far enough to look into Castiel’s eyes. “I want… I want you here, y’know, if you’ll… If you’ll have me.”

Confusion furrows Castiel’s brow, soon shifting to panic. His lips part—Dean touches them with his thumb, feeling the barest hint of Castiel’s tongue against the pad. “I can’t do this,” he says, and Dean’s heart sinks. “Dean, you have no idea how much I want this, but this—I don’t want to hide. If I have you, then I want you by my side.”

“I know,” Dean says. “I know, and that’s what I told Sam, I—I just want you too damn much, Cas. And the fact that I can’t touch you, that I can’t do this”—he sneaks forward an inch to kiss him, fueled by adrenaline and fear—“just kills me.”

Castiel blinks at him, a tear forming in the corner of his eye. Not the first time Dean has ever seen him cry, but it breaks his heart every time. “When the season’s over,” he starts, sounding like a decision. “When everything’s over, we’ll figure it out. I promise, Dean, we’ll…” He ducks his head, and Dean kisses his forehead. “Would you believe me, if I said I’ve been rehearsing for this moment for years? And I forgot everything I wanted to say.”

“God.” Dean laughs, his eyes wet. “Good thing I’m not the only one flying blind, then.”

“I think that’s part of the business.” Castiel pets through his hair, raking his nails across Dean’s scalp. “We’re going to Vegas, and I’d like you to come with us. It’d be great for your fans to see you, but I… We want you there.”

“You too?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods, sealing it with a kiss. “Please. For me.”

 _For him_. “Yeah, Cas,” Dean whispers, and dovetails their legs together. “Anything.”

-+-

Weather in Las Vegas in September is a nightmare, a sweltering landscape that Dean is secretly thankful he doesn’t have to drive in today. From the spotter’s stand, he watches Sam make his way through the pack as the crowd roars for their favorite driver, the noise reaching a fever pitch when someone in the middle spins and takes out three drivers in the process. The yellow flag waves, and all cars form a single file, slowing to a reasonable speed behind the pace car.

At his side, Castiel points to where Sam is, third from the front, behind a veteran and two rookies. Dean feels better today, a few days of rest doing more for him than lying in a hospital bed or motel room ever would. He might be able to race next week, if the weather permits and the stars align. If he waits too long, he won’t be in the running for the championship.

At this point, he could care less. Because between them, he holds Castiel’s hand, out of sight of the occasional pit reporter and photographer. Said pit reporter approaches the booth and signals to Castiel for an interview. Only, today, she doesn’t want Castiel.

“It’s good to see you back on the track, Dean,” she says. Bela, he remembers, from NBC Sports. Dean smiles for the camera and waves while Castiel speaks into a headset, covering the microphone with his hand. “We were starting to get worried we’d never see your face again.”

“Yeah, well, someone pulled a few strings for me,” he laughs. Standard interview procedure, but he means it. Someone pulled off a miracle, and part of him thinks it’s got something to do with the man sitting next to him. “No, but really, I wanna thank all the fans out there with their messages, and I wanna thank my crew and everyone who stayed by my side in the hospital. Definitely wouldn't be here without all of them.”

“You’ve won four races this season,” Bela continues, holding up her microphone. “Do you think you’ll be back in the #5 before the cutoff?”

 _I sure as fuck hope so_. “I’m working on it,” he says with a grin. “I’m better than I was last week, so hopefully you’ll see me back out here soon.”

“One last question.” She stands on her toes. “Your brother won in Atlanta last week, do you think there’s any competition brewing there?”

Castiel cuts him a look from underneath his sunglasses, his mouth obscured but his eyes imploring, like he wants to know the answer too. “I’m trying to be the good older brother,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck. “But would I put him in the wall if he bumped me? Probably,” he cackles. “And he’d probably do the same thing to me, but that’s racing.”

“That’s definitely racing,” Bela says. “Dean Winchester, back on the track in Vegas.”

The camera pulls away, and Dean lets out a breath. He grabs a hat from the table before them and puts it on. Sponsor hats—enough for a change every ten minutes. “How many times are they gonna wanna talk to me?” he asks and takes Castiel’s hand, warm from his breath and sweat.

“Give them a few weeks and something will change,” Castiel soothes. “Hopefully the next time will be when you’re up on the podium.”

And sincerely, Dean hopes so, too.

-+-

Dean doesn’t get back in the car until Talladega. By sheer luck, he sneaks into the final eight, then the final four. Adam attempts to plow through him on the last lap at Phoenix Raceway, but Dean corrects himself and slams his foot on the accelerator, hurdling past the line with barely an inch to spare. It goes down to the photo finish—

And the announcer shouts into the loudspeaker that Dean Winchester is the next Sprint Cup Champion. He pops a tire on the burnout and emerges from the window, wiping away the tears as soon as he pulls his helmet off. In the pits, his crew shouts and hugs each other and claps shoulders—and across the track, Castiel sprints toward him, throwing him into an embrace that could easily crush his ribs if he tried.

The only touch Dean has ever wanted. The only man Dean has ever loved, in his arms in front of primetime television cameras. No kisses, no public intimacy, just a hug, but it’s enough.

Later, after the driver’s interviews and sponsor photos, he’ll drive back to the hotel—the room he’s been sharing with Castiel all week, just like every other hotel across the country. Tomorrow, he’ll drive back to Kansas with Castiel in the passenger seat, and he’ll kiss him like he’s wanted to for years.

But for now, he has this. Tears in his eyes and love in his heart, he has what he’s always wanted, and even more.

**Author's Note:**

> Wherein the author really likes NASCAR. I've had this in my drafts for the better part of a year and I finally finished it! May include references to actual drivers whose names are left out because I couldn't decide if it was weird if I started name dropping people? I normally don't write AUs but I love this one, so I hope y'all like it!
> 
> Title is from the Dierks Bentley song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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